Date: Tue, 25 Jul 2006 17:25:03 +0100
From: Gerry Taylor
Subject: The Time Line - Chapter 13 - Gay - Authoritarian [The Dahran series]
The Time Line by Gerry Taylor
This is the thirteenth chapter [ex twenty two] of a novel about gay sex and
present-day slavery. Keywords: authority, control, gay, loyalty, slavery,
punishment, retraining, sex, submission If you are underage to read this
kind of material or if it is unlawful for you to read such material where
you live, please leave this webpage now.
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The Prison Doctor and The Changed Life [the first novel of this series] are
now available as full novels in Adobe Acrobat format on
http://www.geocities.com/gerrytaylor_78/
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Chapter 13--Arrivism
Nesim Murat had asked to keep his anal virginity until I, as Master,
could take it. I respected that request and when his training in the
compounds was over, he had come out of his weeks of training with a back
passage which could have been technically described as anus intactus et
involatus and that would have summed him up quite nicely.
Because of his special request, I made his first night with me special and
told Ben and Gianni to arrange it as they had once done for me.
That night when Nesim had presented himself at my bedroom suite, I was
already in a white towelled bathrobe and my attendant slave slipped a second
robe on to him. I took his hand and I walked up the stairs with him to the
rooftop. Here more than a hundred lit candles surrounded a four-poster bed
whose side canopies held fine muslin in place in the evening breeze. Had we
wanted to eat, we could have partaken of sweet marzipan from the coast or
crystallised sugared dates from the Dahran foothills, but Nesim was so
nervous that he declined my invitation, as he stood amazed at the beauty of
the setting, itself in a setting of the reds and purples of the Dahran dusk.
The roof was quiet solitude. In the distance, there was the murmuring hum
of cars on the Western Road. On the horizon, the sun had disappeared and its
final, reluctantly dying, rays were now making reddish orange and purple
streaks on the faraway desert skyline.
I lay on the bed and patted the spot beside me where I wanted Nesim. He
stepped out of his robe and the beauty of his small body, glinting from a
hundred candles, was breathtaking from the smoothness of his skin which had
been lightly touched up with Aloe sap, to his dark eyes, soft and alluring,
silently offering up to me his body and the encased soul inside it.
I let my fingers run over his skin as touch is one of the great sexual
allures. His body trembled instinctively and I brought his hand over to
touch my body as well. We explored each others bodies languorously and at
our ease and leisure. But eventually every marvellous voyage of exploration
has its end.
As Nesim was superbly fit, I had no hesitation in raising up his legs up
over his torso and putting each of his arms beside each of his bent knees.
In that way, his buttocks were split wide like an overripe peach with its
puckered kernel at its centre moistly awaiting deflowering.
My erection spoke its own language and finding the most private of my
slave's orifices there waiting for it, I positioned myself with the tip of
my erection touching his tightness and pressed in, and farther in, and
farther in.
His tightness was incredible. I had never quite felt any such vicelike
grip on my penis before. I pulled back and out slightly, and in a single
coup de grâce impaled his rectum with my penis. His sphincter muscles could
not grasp the penetrating penis as his anus had been salved with Aloe cream
and in the cavern of his body, I felt the heat of his innards, and set up
the motion for the breaking in of my latest Turkish slave.
That night I took him three times before we dropped off to sleep. Nesim
did not come until I had taken him a second time on his hands and knees, and
he covered the quilt on the bed with thick streaks of cum.
I was astonished that twenty minutes later, he was hard again, and it was
my turn to astonish him, when I lay on my belly and indicated what I wanted.
This was the first time I had ever volunteered my most private orifice to
anyone, slave or free. The one who had taken my anal virginity had paid the
price on a water-wheel. All of this would be unknown to Nesim as he
positioned himself gently behind and over me. His entrance was slow,
measured and paced. The touch of his penis against my skin was soft, and he
eased himself into me.
Five minutes later, he was spasmming inside me and his breath was hot on
my neck and his little cries of joy and relief and uninhibited sex washed
over the side walls of the rooftop.
When his involuntary penile and muscular contractions had subsided, he
rolled off me, and I turned on my side to look at him. Language in these
situations is a lost cause and more so with Nesim and his lack of a common
one with me to any level of linguistic proficiency. So I did what I had seen
Yuriy Obov do a number of times when speaking of a former lover, I crossed
my first and second fingers and pointed them to Nesim's chest and then to
mine.
He smiled and understood, and then surprisingly, he took my two still
intertwined fingers and raising his upper thigh, placed my hand firmly up
between his legs at the back of his balls.
No clearer statement could be made of his subservience to me and to my
sexual wishes. In appreciation of his offer and statement, I took him once
more, this time as he had taken me, on his belly with his arms and legs
stretched wide, and two pillows under his hips to give me the perfect angle
for his anal penetration.
After that, I know I fell asleep because I woke with the dawn under the
bedclothes where I had not gone of my own recollection and there was Nesim's
arm across my stomach, a half-smile of utter contentment and relaxation on
his sleeping face.
I let the pinks and salmons of the July dawn herald in the arrival of a
trained slave into my household. Like so many things shown to us by nature,
Nesim did not see the dawn greeting laid out for him and slept until I
finally untangled myself, and in so doing, alerted him to his new station in
life. Like the well-trained slave he was, he prostrated himself before me on
the rooftop.
`Come, Nesim,' I said as I indicated to him to get up, `I have a new day
ahead of me and you have a new life ahead of you.'
He did not understand me, but the look on his face and a gesture of his
hand on his heart and then towards the bed and the wider rooftop spoke of
loyalty and love and gratitude that I had taken his virginity, privately and
quietly, and in such a unique manner.
I knew there and then that Nesim Murat and I would get on very well.
Ben Trant, my secretary, notified me of the arrival of a further new
slave. When I heard his name, I did not, in fact, want to see this slave at
all now that he had arrived. In fact, I wanted to have nothing to do with
him and refused to read the tan file until he had been processed and gone
through each of the compounds.
`Put that file away, Ben,' I said to my secretary, `and just let me know
when he has completed his training in the fifth compound.'
`Is there something I should know, Master? I need to know things if I am
to serve you properly.'
`I'll tell you in five or six weeks time, Ben. You serve me very well and
you know that.'
`Yes, Master.'
Ben Trant really does love the inside track of things, that extra bit of
information which no one else knows, thriving on the marrow of power which
he gets in my direct and daily service.
The slave I did not want to see was the exact opposite to Nesim, my latest
Turkish slave. The new arrival was an upstart, an opportunist, in a word a
cocky, conceited, impertinent and arrogant individual who when thoroughly
trained would serve me long and hard. But I had other things on my plate
that day, and I put the latest arrival to my Palace out of my mind.
When love is absent, nothing works so well as fear. This was clearly borne
out when the time came to inspect the impertinent slave who had just
completed his five weeks training in the compounds.
The procedures at the end of training are quite simple. If both
Supervisors agree, the slave is brought to the barbers, then on to the
medical team for a final check-up and then the slave is brought to me, or
more specifically, I am informed that the slave is ready for inspection
normally in the fifth compound or in the slave quarters where he awaits my
pleasure and any disposition I may have to give.
I gave a sole instruction as to how the slave was to be prepared and went
back to my paperwork for an hour. Georgi Gridov was giving me a report on
the new al-Kadir plantings and I enjoyed his overall grasp of the project
coupled with his attention to detail where he made each slave sweat until
the minutiae were all attended to.
What I particularly like about Georgi was the natural ease with which he
attributed success to others. It was always what Graham had suggested or
Dieter Schaffer, his number two, had done, or the two Turkish Supervisors,
Berk or Zeki, or one of the others. He filled an hour with his report as if
it were but minutes, recollecting this or recounting that about the work
achieved.
`Come, Georgi, I have to inspect a new slave,' and I walked over to the
slave quarters with my arm over his shoulder for all who wanted to see how
my little Georgian slave enjoyed my confidence.
The slave was standing `at display' in the centre of the quarters with a
blindfold around his eyes as I had instructed. I nodded at Mirzan who had
been sitting to one side and who now got up at our approach.
`Check out this new slave, Georgi,' I said in English so that the slave
would know of our arrival.
Georgi went over and ran his hands over the slave's musculature. I walked
round the slave in a wide circle, as Georgi took down one arm and then the
other from behind the slave's neck, then bent and flexed each of them.
I saw him put his hand in the centre of the slave's back and bend him
over. As the slave had his legs wide apart, Georgi gently eased him down
until his torso was almost but not quite parallel to the ground.
I stood beside Georgi as he sniffed the slave's butt.
`He is healthy, Master. He is not sick.'
How Georgi knows this by smell is beyond me, but he has never been wrong
so far and I am not complaining.
`How does he take cock?' I asked Mirzan.
`Well, Master, he did require some focussing and he had never been broken
before. But now, he accepts being fucked very well.'
I ran my hand over the slave's shoulder to feel his musculature. His skin
was dry and warm, and exuding heat, even in the cool of day. Some slight
residual welts were to be seen on his backside from a previous camel-cane
beating, but there had been nothing totally severe.
`What do you think, Georgi?'
Georgi was standing to the front of the slave and he put his hand on the
slave's arm and pulled down until the head was at his shorter level. I saw
him whisper something to the slave who nodded and then nodded again.
`Master, he is your most obedient slave and he will work hard for you.'
I smiled to myself at Georgi's procedure.
`Do you think we should put some rings on his tits and on his nose so that
he can be controlled more when he is being fucked.'
`Not really, Master, he is not strong enough to resist the bigger slaves,'
Mirzan replied, `and if he is your most obedient slave, the only thing any
of your Supervisors will have to do is to tell him to be ready to be
fucked.'
I thought I saw the slave shake.
`Take the blindfold off the slave,' I said and walked around to face him.
The slave was blinking in the light and then his eyes focussed.
`Remember me,' I said and I raised my middle finger before his eyes.
Mikey Acton took one look at my face and at my upraised finger, opened his
mouth, his eyes having rolled back in his head, he fainted at my feet.
Mirzan sprang over to catch him but too late, and I said `let him recover
on his own,' as he lay in a relaxed bundle on the ground.
Georgi was looking at me as his most recent clean bill of health lay on
the ground and for the first time in my ownership of him said something that
bordered on a joke.
`Master, you really must watch your sign language,' and he held up his
middle finger.
I pulled up a seat and sat down to await the recovery of the slave.
Revenge is a dish best served cold. Mustafa ben-Mustafa had Mikey Acton
lifted five days following my previous departure from London. He was in
Dahra three days later and now some six weeks later he was lying at my feet.
The slave was beginning to recover his senses and was getting to his
knees. He took a furtive look at me and stayed on his knees with his eyes
downcast.
`Master?' Georgi said in query looking at me. `What am I missing? You know
this slave?'
`Not really,' I said and put my hand under the slave's chin and raised it
so that my newest slave was looking directly into my eyes.
`Hello, Mikey. Have you anything to say?'
`Sir, I am sorry. I am very, very sorry. Please let me go,' he said as
tears started to come down his cheeks.
`I accept your apology, Mikey. I sincerely do. I think you have learned an
important lesson that every action causes an equal and opposite reaction.
But as for letting you go, that is not possible. You have seen the video,
haven't you, as part of your training?'
He swallowed and nodded and snot dribbled from his nose. I pointed at a
piece of towelling close to Mirzan who handed it to me, and I wiped Mikey's
face and nose.
`For the rest of your life, Mikey, you are my slave and are going to work
for me, or more specifically for Overseer Georgi here,' and looking at
Georgi, I filled him in.
`Mikey Acton here, Georgi, tried to rob me in London.'
`He attacked you, Master,' Georgi said indignantly drawing himself up to
his full short height.
`He was caught. He did not hurt me.'
`Master, I have the very rock duty that such a slave needs.'
`Georgi, he's all yours. Report to me in a month,' and looking at Mirzan,
I said `Well done, Mirzan, a nicely submissive slave! You should have seen
his arrogance previously. Well done!'
Having authority and not using it is an offence to the laws of society. In
Dahran society, where the Master is the authority, an aura of respect which
can be tinged with either love or fear or a combination of both is best
found in every household if that household is to survive and prosper.
In time, not just in a month, Mikey Acton would find that my authority was
to be the abiding rule of every waking moment of his life from now on.
Five times, once each month from April onwards I had met with Qusay
al-Rafi, the junior architect from the Annan and Annan office whom David
Tuttle had recommended.
He was Egyptian and without fear of contradiction, I can state that he was
beautiful. David had not lied nor had he made any mistake. He was also
sexually straight as a die and like many people who are brilliant in a
particular area, very shy when venturing outside it.
On architecture and related matters, he could talk until he had to be
stopped. On other matters, conversation had to be maintained as he sat on
its fringes. Each month, he would come to me at the Bank for the two hot
hours after lunch when Bank business would always be at its lowest ebb, and
first he received my ideas and then having implemented them, with a few
modifications of his own, he started suggesting improvements not just to my
ideas, but to the basic design and concept of what originally had been a
widow's beach house before I had purchased it.
I think he was afraid of me and I mentioned that to David one evening at
dinner.
`Afraid is not the word, Jonathan, he is in awe of you and petrified that
something will go wrong and you'll report him to one of the partners. But at
the same time, he is one of the most brilliant people in the office.
Brilliance is something I recognise when I see it. Has he made any
suggestions to you?'
`Yes, he has.'
`There I told him to. He has good ideas.'
So it was August by the time that the beach house was structurally ready
and I brought Pete Downings down with me to it so that he could have it
decorated for me.
It is strange how a simple beach house can take five months to re-build--it
had been badly burned in a fire and my re-building of it was that plus an
extension of some of the rooms. I had it fit out essentially for one person,
myself.
Pete took one look at the ground floor of the beach house and merely said
`Boss, what do you want?'
`Surprise me, Pete. Surprise me.'
He looked across at Qusay al-Rafi who had joined us there and said, `Well,
we had better get started.'
A couple of weeks later when I visited the beach house again with its
ski-jump-like roof and its off-white walls, I was stunned with the
simplicity of the décor, the furnishing of each room seemed just suited for
it, and blended in with the overall modern tone which seemed to rise in the
air like a gull on the sea breeze.
Ben, my secretary, keeps telling me that a slave should always know the
mind of his Master. For Ben, when he refers to himself in this way, it means
that he wants to serve me better. In Pete's case, it is being able to read
me in matters of taste and in being able to supply the answers.
Ben also has a point in that the Master has to be consistent; nothing
upsets slaves more than unwarranted and unannounced changes. After a number
of months of their lives being filled practically from morning till night
with matters to be done for the Master, slaves need a firm and continuous
routine to be happy, At the Palaces, these routines include sports to keep
fit and trim of body, languages and other classes to be keen of mind, to say
nothing of the sex techniques classes which are always booked out or even
visits to the barbers' shop or to the beach if obtaining a number of
personal bests. It is indeed a matter of being consistent.
I, as their Master, am happy to oblige. So, in my Palaces routine rules,
slaves are content and the Master is happy.
One of the things I most enjoy as a Master is entertaining. Not
entertaining on a lavish or sumptuous scale but having friends and
neighbours in for an evening's meal or conversation, and now with Kent
Kialka, as resident concert pianist, for musical evenings when the guest
list warrants it.
In this, a surprising help came from a surprising source. Jake Peoples is
the Mercury, that is to say the messenger, for the Lemon Palace--there to run
with a message for either myself or one of the Overseers to whatever part of
the properties and farms is required. Not only is he an extraordinarily
beautiful young man, now a darker golden tan than when he first arrived due
to his frequent outside runs in the Dahran sun, but he has a genuinely nice
and friendly disposition, to say nothing of some sexual techniques with his
tongue which are beyond price.
Jake had come one day with a message from Yuriy Obov, my Stables Overseer,
and as I was deciding what message to send back about a new area of
planting, I noticed in my diary for the day that I was expecting three of my
neighbours for dinner that evening and also I was awaiting the arrival of an
English guest who had been at the Palace on a number of occasions. I was
trying to remember what their likes and dislikes were and I must have
murmured something to that effect under my breath about the pending
arrivals, when Jake said, `All of that, Master, will be in the guests'
register, will it not?'
`What guests' register?' I said.
Seeing that I did not know what he was talking about, Jake replied
`Surely, Master, the Palace has a guests' register of what the previous
guests like and don't like.'
I looked at him and thought of the tizzy Pete Downings had been in when
the Palace's first female guest, Khalila bint Omar, had arrived.
`Are you saying, Jake, that your former Master kept a register of his
guests?'
`Not my former Master. The Head of my Master's household. Everything was
recorded in the most minute detail. Nothing was left to chance. Ever!'
`Ben!'
My secretary came running.
`Do we have a guests' register?'
`A what, Master?'
`A guests' register. We have Sir Alan Young coming this evening. Do we
know what type of soap he likes?'
`Master, I do not know what you are talking about. Yes, I put Sir Alan's
arrival in the diary when his note came to you last month. I have informed
Pete Downings so that a suite can be prepared for Sir Alan. But soap?
Register?'
Ben was looking from me to Jake and back again.
`Ben, from now on I want a register kept of every single detail about our
guests. What they like. What they don't; which suites they have occupied.
Have Jens design you a programme.'
`Yes, Master, and for that, Master, may I humbly ask for some help as
Gianni and I would not have the amount of time needed to compile all these
details.'
I looked at Jake, who looked at me and grinned.
`Are you up to that, Jake?'
`Master, I would have to learn about computers. I know nothing about
them.'
`Good, have a word with Jens, and get it under way. And tell Yuriy to do
as he suggests.'
`Yes, Master.'
I looked at the marvellous buns of Jake Peoples as he departed.
`Some backside, eh, Ben?'
`Yes, Master,' Ben said following my glance. `Pity he has to sit on it.
But if I can say so, Master, it's not as good as Gianni's.'
And I noticed the smile as he said it.
Such a simple concept. The creation and compilation of a guest register,
if I say so myself, was one of my better decisions in the scheme of things,
as it eased everyone's life. Flavio's life as a record of the menus served.
Bob's as a record of who sat where and which food and wines were preferred.
Pete's for the suites allocated. The list went on and on, and the Guests'
Register became a living handbook of `Who's who' at the Palaces.
One of the things about being authoritarian is that no one raises an
eyebrow when you act in character, least of all a slave. Many of my slaves
consistently stay in a single relationship year after year. Some have the
same partner since the day I acquired them and first assigned them a
partner.
A buddy or partner is all-important in a slave's life in my Palaces as the
slave knows that he is not on his own, that he has someone with whom to
communicate on a daily basis. Even if that communication is limited to an
obligatory jack-off morning and evening, if the two do not have actual sex.
However, the interaction between buddies is much more than that. At times,
it is a sharing of work, or a similarity of work, or working in tandem. It
may be just sitting beside the buddy at meal-times or sharing the warmth of
a buddy in a bed at night. But it is sharing at its most basic level.
Other slaves never really settle into a long-term relationship and
invariably once a month those who are without partners are assigned buddies
for the following month.
End of Chapter 13
===========
Contact:
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The Dahran series -- a fictional adventure story about the life and times of
Sir Jonathan Martin -- comprises the following novels to date:
1. The Changed Life
2. The Reluctant Retrainer
3. The Market Offer
4. The Special Memories
5. The Dahran Way
6. The Dahran Rebuttals
7. The Seventh Desert
8. The Dahran Sands
9. The Time Line
These novels are all serialised on Nifty (Gay -- Authoritarian) and on
YahooGroups http://groups.yahoo.com/group/erotic_gay_stories